From one finished basement to another to another we move,
our Greenwich Village,
our Haight-Ashbury,
our Wrigleyville;
our Berkley coffee shop;
our LA diner;
our Texas truck stop;
our Santa Monica mall;
our Goon Docks;
our train tracks,
and the body at their end.
Our everything first,
where sometimes we watch
and sometimes we play
and sometimes we do it all,
shameless,
but knowing no better
and caring no more.
Who would have thought we’d leave behind haunted chairs, invisible burns on grassy fields, scuffed floors lit by exit sign?
Who expected the initials we carved to outlast us?
Who knew black eyes could be permanent?
Who thought the bathroom stall a stage?
Who signed his name in laughter?
Who made out with her eyes?
Who did this when we weren’t watching, when we had no choice, when we knew no better than to look ahead?
Everyone hides behind sunglasses and the white highs of the hills.
The tourists can have Sunset;
We'll take Highland and Santa Monica
Or red-eye downtown,
Where no one's left and everyone wants to be
And Lon Chaney still rides the red car;
Don't let the smoke keep you.